Summer’s end

Apples began to fall from the trees yesterday. White faced hornets, bees, and small ragged butterflies mill around goldrenrod and asters. The last few days have been in the 80’s, so we dip into the ponds for the last swims of the season. This morning I  got the ladder out to climb up and gather apples.

The Apple Barn

He lived alone by the old apple barn
after being released from confinement
he was happy except
in the extreme heat
of the early autumn days

when the bees would hoard all of the honey
and dive into the barrels of warm cider he made
like aero-stuntmen from the old days

he’d cuss and leave them to it
the bees would fall drunk around him
on the sweetness of the cider

he lived alone by the old apple barn
gathering apples where they fell
watching the stars on summer nights

steering his dreams by moonlight
after moving to the Ashfield hills
he was happy except
in the extreme heat
of the early autumn days

when memories bobbed up and dived
so many leftover dreams
when he lived alone by the old apple barn

Thanks to Halcyyon Days Magazine, in Canada, for publishing one of my poems at the end of September.


From  Charlotte’s Web, by E B White.
“The crickets sang in the grasses. They sang the song of summer’s ending, a sad monotonous song. “Summer is over and gone, over and gone, over and gone. Summer is dying, dying.” A little maple tree heard the cricket song and turned bright red with anxiety.

The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year — the days when summer is changing into fall the crickets spread the rumor of sadness and change.

Everybody heard the song of the crickets. Avery and Fern Arable heard it as they walked the dusty road. They knew that school would soon begin again. The young geese heard it and knew that they would never be little goslings again. Charlotte heard it and knew that she hadn’t much time left. Mrs. Zuckerman, at work in the kitchen, heard the crickets, and a sadness came over her, too. “Another summer gone,” she sighed. Lurvy, at work building a crate for Wilbur, heard the song and knew it was time to dig potatoes.

“Summer is over and gone,” repeated the crickets. “How many nights till frost?” sang the crickets. “Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye!”

IMG_1252Last of the flowers at Picadilly Farm, NH.


About elainereardon

Poet, writer, gardener, herbalist, pottery, painting—bumping into magic, peeking around new corners.
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